The seventh anniversary of the invasion of Iraq recently brought back memories of an earlier war which began on a hot, dusty day in August and which trapped me in the frontlines, so to speak.
Saddam Hussain had walked into Kuwait and the huge influx of refugees had started trickling through the border into Riyadh, the capital of Saudi Arabia, where I was posted.
Before this war, trying to get any sort of news was like walking through a maze and required untangling of tons of red tape. When the huge American troop buildup began, it also brought an army of TV journalists and satellite dishes started sprouting on every rooftop.
Suddenly, journalism was fun and an interesting profession again, though the US military had its own restrictions and the local media had very little chance of getting to the frontline. But getting the news out to people was now really happening.
Just before the massive coalition attack began on Baghdad, Iraq started lobbing Scud missiles every night. A couple of weeks earlier, I was frightened out of my wits when an army spokesman talked about Ricin and other nerve and poisonous gases that could be launched in the missiles.
A large consignment of gas masks was suddenly flown in and huge queues formed in the early morning as people tried to protect themselves. I was told that the masks were bought from an East European country and their filters were past their expiration dates much earlier.
I was told that I would get only one gas mask, for our baby. I decided against getting that since I thought the baby would have very little chance of surviving alone in the flat with us gassed to death. Getting my wife and the baby out of the country seemed impossible and there was talk that the Riyadh airspace would soon be closed. I had heard that New Delhi had formed an air bridge with Amman and was airlifting 110,000 Indians back home from the Gulf, the largest airlift in history.
The next best thing was to send them to Jeddah, 1,000km away and beyond the reach of the war. Since my office didn't provide insurance, I also asked to be brought back to Jeddah, but the request was turned down.
Makeshift bunker
I made a makeshift bunker in my living room, upturning the sofa over the dining table and placing industrial tape under the door and on windows to hopefully stop the gas from entering.
I am not sure which was scarier, the howling of the sirens or the huge explosion that rattled the windows after each Scud fell. The Iraqis were very punctual; they had a fixed time when they hurled the Scuds at us and then we all went off to sleep twitching and tossing. But not before checking with everyone we knew to determine they were safe and alive.
After a while it started getting a bit boring, so I would climb up to the roof to watch the fireworks. First the sirens would wail, a trail of light could be seen if the Scud was coming somewhere near and then the muffled thump, thump of Patriot interceptor missiles going off from the airport.
Sometimes the Patriots did more damage than the Scuds, falling into residential areas. The Iraqi missiles were more like flying buses and could not carry enough payload as far as Riyadh, so their only objective was to scare us silly.
Years later (actually last month), BBC correspondent Kate Adie, who covered many wars, spoke to journalism students in Dubai telling them that no story was worth dying for. "If you die, you have failed in your duty getting the news out," she said, or words to that effect. My reasoning during the war was similar.
